ERode

Super-powered Killing Game with Randomized Super Powers

A set up where the characters are forced to participate in a killing game is very different from a set up where characters know they are going to participate in a killing game. You'll probably also have a higher chance of people just going "ok my power's pretty good...AT ESCAPING THIS GAME SEE YA LOSERS" in the former scenario, especially because randomized powers and no singular author would allow things to go whack fast.

Super-powered Killing Game with Randomized Super Powers

I'll keep an eye on this for now. I'm guessing the idea is that we don't find out about our character's powers until the IC begins?

《 H.E.R.O. 2064 》

_@Scarifar

It was good Stretch was sent for this work. Lethal and lackadaisical as the old-timer was, he had both a semblance of control with his mutant capabilities and was unlikely to turn people into paste, compared to a couple of her other less-restrained colleagues. She smiled thinly as his expressions revealed just how little he cared for that shot of literal garbage, and propped up her head with her hand as she blew loops of pink fumes through her mask.

“I’ve had the opportunity to dissect and study the livers of a few Slavic gentlemen before,” she replied, her free hand drawing lines through the air. “The human body’s ability to adapt is truly marvelous, and though I’m personally against the notion of converting my outer flesh into something sturdier and scale-like…” She sucked in her gut and gently stroked the base of her ribcage. “…well, even I’m not so shameless as to expose my organs of my own volition. If you’re referring to the taste though? It’s just an experience, Mr. Williams.”

Briefly, she caught the bartender’s eyes and raised two fingers, then closed her hand into a fist before extending her thumb and her pinky. A moment later, two new drinks slid towards them, tall glasses of some red, pulpy drink, with a slice of lime on the rim and lumpy ice cubes click-clacking at the surface. Carmilla took one of herself, pulling her mask down again and gesturing the glass towards Stretch. “Just you today? Or did the dear director send more?”

Another sip. Pungent and spicy, with a near-caustic burn that ended up numbing her tongue. Sichuan peppercorns? She smiled. Trust places like these to be inspired with their selection.

Qualia: Mission Sub Rosa

_{EE 87, May 5 | Morning}

The night passed, and the morning came.

At 5 AM, the mists receded, leaving naught more but damp residue for the sun to clear away, and with that, whatever mechanism had empowered the Starsteel Formulization with electricity disappeared too. Those who stuck with the rules of the curfew were unaffected by this change, of course, as were those who didn’t care about being caught for breaking the rules of the curfew. It was only for a select few individuals within Bermuda whom this change affected.

Lucretia von Konigsmahne had not slept. After a long day of touring, an eventful evening of partying, and a night of unpacking, she had spent all her time doing nothing but puzzling over the intense glare of the Starsteel Formulization that some uppity Oriental schmuck had designed. Her eyes were red from staring into such agonizing light and her index finger was rubbed raw from the constant precise motions she made to try to maneuver through this dense nebula of Formulized points. Her neck was aching too, and her entire body, as frail as one might expect from a Polymath who spent their time obsessing over the mechanics of their craft, was as stiff as a board. No doubt, the muscle pain involved if she ever left her current position would be nigh-intolerable, but those long-term consequences were not worth considering. No, Lucretia was getting close now, her brain buzzing on fumes as she threaded her Technologism through a forest of needles, gradually unravelled the Gordian Knot. It wouldn’t be in this instant, but it would be soon.

So very soon…until suddenly, the nebula disappeared, replaced by the familiar constellations of malleable stone and iron.

It was as if someone had taken a puzzle that Lucretia had slaved over for the last seven hours and scrambled it up, jammed it back into its box, and took it away. It was clear at that moment, that the challenge wasn’t simply solving the puzzle that Sukoro Jinga had laid out before them. After all, Starsteel Formulizations were, in the context of protecting vaults and valuables, simply a means to delay, to buy time. Any sufficiently intelligent Technologist could eventually crack that puzzle, but hardly any could before an Egoist bank guard smashed their face against the wall. There was no such threat of violence for Lucretia. There was simply the cold, miserable time limit that she had to work against.

Seven hours. No, if she wanted to break curfew, she needed to solve it even faster than that, or there would simply be no point in doing so to begin with.

As her sleep-deprived, sugar-starved mind addled about, the sound of light snoring drew her attention back to the beds. There lay Valeriya, having concluded her own investigations within the first half hour after curfew, now sleeping blissfully without a care in the world. For those with wilder hearts, perhaps this would have sparked some mischief. But surely, Lucretia von Konigsmahne, the Scrap Metal Princess of the Iron Sentinel Empire, was above such emotional outburst?

More hours passed, bringing the clock to saner times.

Franz and Ryuuko would wake to a curious fatigue. Though their accommodations were certainly comfortable enough, the futons fluffy and warm, it felt as if there was something stuck to their lungs. Had they caught a cold last night? Could Egoists even catch something so unassuming as the common cold? Scanning around their rooms revealed the culprit soon enough: overnight, the mist from outside must have gotten in. The tatami, the wood, and the paper screens were all darkened by the sticky, salty damp, and the room smelled as if two bucketloads of seaweed had been steamed inside. Outside their rooms, in the hallway and down in the lobby, were much the same. A couple of their roommates swore at the drenched sight, some cursing that psychotic French bitch in particular, while others decided that some cleaning up was due. A Water Dynamicist cleared out the actual water that had stuck to the walls, globules of fluid being drawn out of fabrics and wood, before he pitched them outside.

Simple work, though he was forced to shrug when the dark stains themselves remained. With elbow grease and cleaning materials, that could likely be removed as well, but, well, which teenager wanted to do chores this early in the morning? Certainly, it wasn’t as if Franz or Ryuuko were going to dry off their own suite, were they?

Whatever their plans were, however, whatever any students’ plans were, it would be interrupted by a voice, crackling over public gramophones placed all around the city.

“Good morning, students of Bermuda Academic City. For those interested in witnessing how those more unrestrained and reckless amongst us will be handled, please make your way to the Central Monument Library. The examination will begin in an hour.”

In the wind, the stench of smoke overflowed.

---

A crowd, numbering less than two thousand, had gathered before the smoldering ruins of one of Bermuda’s great libraries. Nothing but a skeleton of stone remained of what had once been a treasure trove of encyclopedias and studies, everything else reduced to ash that stung the ends and tickled the throat. On a raised platform of stone, three meters in height, stood Jeanne Du Bordeaux, the rare Technologist who had a greater reputation of her misdemeanors than her great deeds. Her reinforcing chasses and the now-unpowered handle of her plasma claymore hung from a rack beside her, their Formulizations and intended use inferable by other Technologists in the crowd. The girl herself had her hands bound together and encased in leather gloves, the simplest solution for nullifying a Technologist, while the rest of her outfit clung to her body from a dampness that persisted even through the warm sunlight that shone down overhead now.

Her expression was inscrutable, perhaps disdainful, perhaps apathetic. But her deeds were clear. A library had been burned, after all. And she was standing there, her armaments on display, her skin still blemished by smoke and ash.

A man, no, a youth who was dressed like a man, stood at the forefront, dressed in the finery befitting of a man of the law, his powdered wig radiant in the sunlight. His eyes, dark and deep-set, glanced towards the crowd of his peers and then to his pocketwatch, before he snapped it shut and slipped it into the inner pocket of his suit. Holding a Crystal Amp, a volume-amplifying product of an obscure nation from the Dark Continent, he began to speak.

“There is an oft-heard saying in this era of ours, that madness is at the root of genius. That only those unfettered by convention and law can aspire to become great. But those who believe in such sayings forget themselves. They forget the Folly of Paracelsus. They forget the Tragedy of Binding. They forget the Formation of the Devil’s Heart, the Thunderclouds over Liverpool. They forget that it was not madmen who pulled our world to this Era of Enlightenment, but men of sound logic and reason.” A pause. “We all know that this peace is tenuous still, that fifty years is not enough for any government, any people to forget and forgive what has been lost in the Futile War. The collapse of the Ottoman Empire, just last night, will no doubt see some of our peers leave before the first week of our attendance is up. The curfew, and the Starsteel Formulization that enforces it, will no doubt foment aggression towards one of our own. But these are small things, compared to the wanton destruction of the one commonality shared by all of us.”

A gesture, towards the ruins of the Central Monument Library.

“Knowledge to ashes. Rare texts to cinders. All at the hands of Jeanne Du Bordeaux, a fellow countryman of mine. An act of arson committed during curfew, perhaps one that would have extended to all buildings within this place if she had not been bound by a hitherto unknown individual and restrained at the site of her crime.” Murmurs in the crowds, sharing rumors and stories, encounters and experiences with the infamous Technologist. “And for those who find circumstantial evidence lacking, photographs of her actions have been submitted and published by the Bermuda Triangle…and to my chagrin.” A frown on his brow, as if some amateur publication getting information at the same time that he did was an affront to the examination.

Anyone who had snagged a newspaper from the lobby of their apartments, however, wouldn’t have to flip far to see a black-and-white photograph of Jeanne taken from a high vantage point, as she swung a flamethrower of a sword with a cold expression on her face.

“But, despite this evidence, perhaps there is reason for Du Bordeaux to act in such a manner. The nature of modern trials are such that one is innocent until proven guilty, but considering how everything points towards her guilt, I see it as fair that she be deemed guilty until proven innocent.” He raised his hands, three fingers extended. “Jeanne Du Bordeaux will be placed either under house arrest or under the supervision of one Egoist willing to be held responsible in any circumstance in which their charge acts out, for a period of time lasting three days. After that time, she will return here to defend herself amongst a jury of twenty students. If deemed guilty, she will be expelled from Bermuda Academy City.”

The crowd was getting excited now, at the drama unfolding before them. Risking expulsion on the first day? Insane! Even more insane? That expulsion was even possible for Polymaths whose genius was so brilliant that most other universities would have begged them to come.

“And for those questioning under whose authority I make these proclamations, allow me to introduce myself.” Eyes, sharp as stone. Posture, unyielding as an obelisk. “Appointed to lead the Committee of Public Safety by the Administration of Bermuda, I am Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre, Polymath and Enforcer. Now, are there any here who wish to volunteer for the supervision of Du Bourdeaux?”

The sun shone hot. No one, yet, raised their hands.

Qualia: Mission Sub Rosa

---

Jeanne’s eyes twitched at the sudden noise.

Was it to be like this? Barely any input for so long and now one of derision? She feared naught but the possibility that she would die before her vision was completed, and the possibility of the unknown. But fear can be conquered with knowledge, and if whatever it was out there in the fog was… to expire in an unfortunate accident, she could study it more closely. If it was otherworldly, then all the more reason to take it down now.

She emptied her pockets, the coin sized mechanical spiders disguised as buttons immediately deploying, its top irising open, blue dots sweeping the area. Four clambered up onto her, disappearing into her clothes and into a backplate where it took power from them.

With her arms held straight, she focused on the strands on her work equipment, the straps running up and down her body. Strands changed to be flexible and strong, with immense propensity for retraction and expansion at an accelerated rate. This was a crude measure, but perhaps a necessary one if whatever stalked her had traits beyond fleshly means.

The button on her palm popped out, as she held it up, emitting a bright light as she tried to see past the mist. The rest of the spidery automatons followed her in a single file, as she investigated the source of the noise.

The spotlight shot out with brilliant radiance, and immediately, Jeanne’s vision was filled with white. Pure white. Blinding white. The white of her spotlight, reflecting off the dense fog right back into her face. Even if it may not have been enough to cause her to flinch, it was enough for her to squint, momentarily distracted.

But only for a moment. And at an indiscernible distance, she heard a stomp from behind, powerful and pronounced within the smothered world of fog.

“Group 1” She turned, the rows of small automatons turning with her. “Fire!”

A focused beam, unlike what she had exhibited before. That was a mere test after all; she wasn’t exactly going to kill someone. If Ryuuko did die, that simply meant she was an impostor and wasn’t fit to be in this academy. But for this thing, the small spiders fired not a wide burst of flame, but a small blue beam, a lance of plasma. Their furnace’s size makes it short ranged, but that didn’t matter considering how close it was.

The spider-furnaces hissed, then screamed as lances of plasma surged out, the sudden temperature difference shredding through the fog and dispersing it, enough so that Jeanne caught the glimpse of some creature, the mere glimpse of some leathery tail…but that was all. No carbonization of flesh, no cry of agony.

Her reactions, quick as they were, weren’t quick enough.

Behind her once more, a consequence perhaps of turning around, she heard that same sound, could now perceive the movement of a tremendous amount of wind that was yet insufficient for blowing apart the fog that veiled that creature from her own gaze.

“Tch.” Jeanne’s eyes darted around. Being unable to see it properly was an annoyance to be sure. She had half a mind to start punching it to pulp as soon as it showed up. First, she had to deal with the fog, which, admittedly, was not something she was expecting, or had ever experienced, having to actually deal with. “Are you waiting for something? Afraid of a single weak girl?”

“All groups, formation circle!” She bent down as the spider automatons formed a circle around her, ready to fire while the previous group recharged their shot. The furnace she was using as a light was shut down back into its inert form, before she placed a hand onto the ground.

Formulation and production. Once there might have been a need for craftsmen to create things individually for assembly. That still was true for the poor, but for someone like her, assembly and creation of a machine with complex manipulation was of no real problem.

A cav field generator at the guard, slot for the furnace at the back, alternating materials for insulation, matrix strengthening of the overall structure, oval cross section and squishy material for the grip. Circle moved into circles, lines intersecting, jostling other bright stars, until the shape she wanted was filled and created.

A foot long handle came out of the ground, her Excalibur, but bladeless, even as she put the furnace into the slot at the bottom where the pommel should be.

Shield and sword. Field and flame. Surrounded by miniaturized furnaces that could flare up to life in a single word, bearing a claymore of plasma that could cleave through steel, her gallant face bearing a fierce expression, Jeanne became the archetypal knight of the Enlightened Era, an anachronism that could only exist in French culture. Her fingers tingled still at the complex Formulizations that she had accomplished in such a short amount of time, but it was a sensation that she had felt many times before. As with following a recipe, as if piecing together a jigsaw puzzle, the more one did it, the faster and less taxing it became, and now, fully equipped, Jeanne stood ready for whatever nightmare lurked in the darkness.

In the distance, that same sound, of a foot stomping against the earth, echoed out. Seconds crawled by, but nothing approached. Had what she responded to simply another curfew-breaker, catapulting themselves through the fog-shrouded streets? The leathery tail merely an Egoist’s mutations, their disregard for her challenge merely because of the miniscule threat she posed? A minute crawled by, her surroundings peaceful, foreboding. Or was it all faked, to get her to drop her guard? A shadow that flickered at the edge of her vision. An Egoist, launching themselves through the emptied streets.

Did these statements match?

“Scatter formation!”

The spiders scattered from each other immediately at that command.

If it was just going to keep its distance taunting her, perhaps thinking Jeanne was slower than it, then it was dead wrong. Speed, strength, and even reaction time to an extent was nothing for a Technologist to augment. Faster than any humans could move, fast as only machines could achieve, Jeanne sped through the mist like a bullet, the plasma sword arcing a brilliant blue around her.

Mist blew past her as her brain buzzed with frenetic focus. Heat modulation, mental navigation, and a sharpened awareness of her surroundings kept Jeanne on track, even as her spider furnaces were left further and further behind by the speed that her Formulized straps gave her. More torque, more force than what humans themselves could generate through a lifetime of training, with experience that allowed her to keep her movements in sync even as she traversed through a cityscape that had long become a blur. There was no distant scenery to keep her orientated, but it mattered not.

All that mattered was that, even though the sound of the footstomps she trailed gradually became more and more quiet, she could still follow it through Bermuda, could reorientate herself. It was her pride that made the furnace master believe that the creature was taunting her. But that was just pride, irrational and meaningless. Her miniaturised furnaces were left in the dust. She continued through the suffocating fog, drawing in more of that damp air, until…

…something whizzed overhead, followed by the unmistakable hiss of a suppressed steampistol. Five more shots scattered around, ricocheting off stone pathways and steel streetlamps, one shattering a lamp and darkening her immediate surroundings.

But Jeanne was not hit.

In the distance, another footstomp echoed. If she did not continue, she would finally be so far that the quarry she chased would be untrackable.

The mini furnaces were left behind to their purpose, even as she moved quickly through the fog. Jeanna had initially thought to try and disperse the fog, but with someone actively shooting at her, she switched immediately to a low stance, moving faster through the fog. If she could see the enemy, the enemy could also see her.

Moving quickly, she picked up a pebble from the ground, holstering her weapon as she altered the rock on the move.

No more gunshots chased after Jeanne. Whatever had shot at her did not pursue, and the Technologist continued throughout the fog at her breakneck pace. Sweat and salt pooled in the creases of her clothing, lungs heaving in the thick air as she continued to keep just in range of the sound that led her.

The sound that led her closer and closer, to the center of the island, to the sequestered academies that made up Bermuda’s interior.

In time, those footstomps disappeared, whatever travelling through the fog taking a subtler approach. Jeanne herself stood at the very entrance of the seamless grand walls that prevented the uninitiated from coming in. Her student card could supposedly serve as a key, but this late at night, it looked unlikely that the reader, shining with the devastatingly bright light of the Starlight Formulization, would function. But there were no other traces of the monster she had hunted.

Jeanne did not falter of course. She simply silenced the material she was holding, the rawest form of her specialty, ready to engulf the entire area in hellfire. Taking out the sword, she simply cut through the door, Or rather, burnt through the entire door, the scorching heat blasting dry air around as she disabled the cav field holding the plasma together. There was no shortage of people able to wield fire after all, and using a card reader was a ludicrous move to even consider.

And with the roaring of plasma, the thunderous screech of stone blasting away, Jeanne was able to pass into the inner sanctums of Bermuda. It was as she remembered it, libraries and study halls arranged in concentric circles while gardens and gazebos served as outdoors distractions for students who required a change of pace to get their brains moving. Though area had previously been clear of fog, it looked as if the hole she made now was enough to start drawing more of the fog inside.

There was undoubtedly a treasury of ancient manuscripts and materials within this portion of the island, but, once more, there was no sign of anyone else here either. It was simply an empty space, dead as a graveyard.

See?

Compulsion? Instinct? Her eyes lifted towards the library to the northwest. Upon the gothic roof, something indistinct moved, slithering within the darkness that laid between false stars. The faintest outline of a tail, the shrouded suggestion of folded wings. Before she could make out anything further, the humanoid creature disappeared.

It must have gone inside.

Turning the safety back on, she made her way to the library’s door. Jeanne put her hands in her pockets reflexively, grasping for the buttons that weren’t there. All of them were deployed at the moment, with some in her working suit’s backplate. While she could remotely ping them to call them to her, it would take precious time she might not have. No matter, she had enough to deal with anything at the moment.

She gently opened the door.

The lights were off, and beyond the diffused glow of the streetlamps outside peeking into the large windows, the library was in a state of perpetual gloom. It was hard to make out the details that had made the place out to be some exquisite place of knowledge when they toured it during the morning; at night, it was simply gloomy and empty, claustrophobic and cavernous, filled with oppressive contradictions.

But it wasn’t silent.

Jeanne could hear it, echoing within the darkness, whispering into the depths of her mind. A ghostly wailing, a tortured soul’s timbre reverbrating monotonously, as if it had done so for millennia. Surely not though, when Bermuda couldn’t have been more than a couple years old?

Fear and superstition was not in Jeanne’s repertoire however, and with the plasma sword’s setting on the lowest, she banished the darkness with its light, holding it aloft like a torch. Darkness had no teeth, save for only in one’s mind.

Her breath was slow, almost tense as she entered, that feeling of adrenaline as her body tensed for immediate danger. Her steps clacked rhythmically against the floor as she investigated first the rows and rows of books.

“Wooo…wooooooooo…”

Jeanne continued through without response, the blue light of her plasma sword granting the illumination she needed to see the rows and rows of books stacked up on the shelves. The ghostly wailing continued for a bit longer, becoming more and more deranged, until, echoing through the library, from what seemed as if it was all around her, that same ghostly voice spoke up.

“Aw man, guess that didn’t work after all.”

Jeanne inhaled and exhaled slowly. Alas it seemed not to be the new specimen she was looking for. A student perhaps? A teacher with a strange sense of humour?

“Show yourself. Or stay there and I will incinerate both the structure and you.”

A dark chuckle sounded. “Oh, you truly exceed your reputation. Do it.”

A quick movement, and the safety was off, the blade flaring uncontrolled and wild from her weapon. Heat enough to set the air in motion as air swirled around chaotically, the very ends of her cuffs burning as she swung it. It didn’t take full contact from the blade for anything remotely flammable to catch fire, and those close enough to the superheated core vaporised instead of just burning. With the safety off, the blade was more like a blowtorch than a contained sword, flaring several meters in width.

It was paper and wood, after all. It would burn well. Warmer light filled the cavernous library now, flickering shadows growing starter as flames grew hotter. Books, shelves, chairs, tables, anything that Jeanne would direct her blowtorch of a sword towards would dry, char, and then combust. Smoke surged up, the ceilings high enough that she had yet to start choking on it.

“Mhmm, that’s a nice little bonfire you’ve got there.” Rapid clicks sounded somewhere, but the roaring flames masked the direction. Her senses were still human, even if her power was divine. “On the small side though, no? There are sand rats who could do more with a matchstick than you with your fancy toy.”

“Small words from a coward. A small dog barks loudest after all.”

A flick of the controls, and the cav field turned on, directing rather than containing, the blade growing several meters longer but thinner though still flaring wild the longer it went. She swung it swiftly around, not only from side to side, but upwards too. Were they hiding in the rafters? Ceiling? One of the overhanging balconies?

The weightless blade of heat continued to slice and dice, carbonizing any organic material it struck while blackening, then brightening, the surfaces of stone and steel. Carpets caught flame too, tapestries and paintings, plant life wilting into ashes. The temperatures rose further, an inferno stoked by the destruction of works of wit and art. Jeanne would soon suffocate if she didn’t prepare countermeasures to her own destruction. She had recalled though, that the shadow that she had stalked entered the building from the roof. If they were still there, the smoke should reach them, as well as the scalding heat. And yet…

“Bark bark,” the voice continued, crackling and cackling alongside the crumbling structure of the library. “Leave it to the French to be barbarians in this era.”

So it was someone from the island itself, and with a hate for the French. Was it an Englishman? No, if it was some sort of monster she had followed, it should be someone from the Oriental lands. France has many enemies but none as vehement as the English after all, what with the struggle for the crown and all.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and shut down the blade.

As if losing all interest, Jeanne simply pushed aside the door and walked out. There was something wrong there. There weren't any answers to be gained from her current actions after all.

Neck.

Her hands went up immediately to her neck, before she looked around the area.

A sharp pain jolted through her hand and into her neck, right as Jeanne turned. Immediately, her body felt heavier, as if her blood had thickened to a syrup, as if her heart was weighed down by anchors.

“Huh.” The same voice. So much clearer and nearer now. “Didn’t think you’d be able to react to that.”

Her eyes trailed the needle embedded through her hand, the long, whip-like tail that delivered it, the thick, muscular lower body that was connected to it, and traced it up to the bat-like wings, the barrel-sized chest, and the face. The face of a devil, massive ears like a double-sided axe stretching out from his face. Piercing golden eyes, a gnarled mouth twisted into a smile. Beneath the coarse fur that covered his chest and his extremities lay pasty, pale skin. From his neck hung a camera.

An Egoist. An Occidental one.

“Well, no worries, matchstick girl. I’m no murderer.”

Her eyelids felt immeasurably heavy, and she slumped onto the ground as the inferno raged behind her.

“Just an opportunist.”

《 H.E.R.O. 2064 》

♪

Garish lighting scarred one’s eyes, afterimages of searing spotlights interspersing with disco balls and lasers, while one’s organs vibrated in sync with the heaving of human bodies, with the thrumming of overblown bass. Illicit substances traded with handshakes and shared pipes, from self-rolled cigarettes jammed with personal mixtures to oversized constructions of glass and steel that looked more at home in a chemist’s labs. The DJ, six-armed and heavily-pierced, roared out with the ferocity of a barbarian into his megaphone while his feet turned the records and adjusted the dials, four massive screens behind him practically blinding those closest to him with shotgun blasts of hypnotizing visuals. Overhead, the sprinkler systems turned on and off in erratic bursts, eliciting squeals as cold water touched burning skin, the lack of proper ventilation gradually turning the place into a humid hothouse of human fumes. The energy of the Rainy Day Nightclub, frenetic and bursting at the seams, perfectly exemplified all of humanity’s worst inhibitions, vices running rampant within the damp, underground cesspool.

And Regina loved every second of it.

Dressed like some sexual deviant of a doctor, in which her labcoat did absolutely nothing to hide the cybergoth combination of leather straps and metal studs wrapped around her lithe form, the woman leaned against the bar counter with a long, satisfied sigh, her pale green bangs clinging stickily to her pallid skin. The devil-motifed mask she had over her lower face glowed in the gloom with each exhale, curious vials of sanguine liquid attached to both sides fizzing within the glass. Though her obsessions may have made her out to be some psychotic workaholic who modified herself until her physiology barely resembled that of a normal human, that didn’t meant Regina was bereft of all human desires. Having fun, every once in a while, made her feel as young as she was, while keeping an eye on all the dirty little aberrants running amok in Brookside kept her own designs creative too. Sure, her colleagues had useful mutations, but these people? They had interesting ones.

Not that she was here for pleasure alone. A trail of evidence and information that her little darlings had collected over the last few days pointed towards this nightclub in particular as a place of interest. Nuclear weaponry and anti-mutant supremacists, how spicy! If there was a way to finesse things so both issues could be solved without this wonderful little petri dish being turned into a warzone like the train, that would be wonderful too. Perhaps a bit of tracking, a bit of subterfuge, a bit of poison…

She pulled her mask off, revealing thin, bloodless lips and a tongue that stretched on for too long, before taking a sip of a vile little concoction that the bartender brewed up, one that’d probably blind half the imbibers if they drank more than three shots of it.

…but, as expected, Steel’s still got her shit together.

A hiss escaped before her lips. Her thumb pushed a stray strand of hair of her eyes as she caught the glances of those that entered the nightclub. And, with the languid grace of someone accustomed to not giving a shit, Regina raised a glass towards them.

A toast, to the imminent closure of the Rainy Day Nightclub.

Qualia: Mission Sub Rosa

Whether in solitude or in company, whether in harmony or dissatisfaction, the first generation of Bermuda’s students occupied themselves as the last few minutes of curfew ticked away. Some found themselves still wrestling with inordinate amounts of luggage that did not fit their curious residences. Others simply lounged upon beds or sofas, the headiness of the party making any extra activity too much of a bother. Still more busied themselves with the research that brought them there, forging new partnerships or simply continuing the work that they had always done, shunning whatever division between nighttime and daytime that their primitive ancestors may have pursued. Night had truly fallen now, and with it, the seconds until ten o’clock drew closer and closer.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

…

It was like a wave of thunder, rolling through the plains. It was like the clash of percussive steel, performed by an army. It was the great bell of the Clocktower that laid in the center of the island, extolling the passing of the day with ten long clangs, forceful enough that the nascent mists vibrated from the force. Perhaps if there were any who had snuck into the cloistered interior of Bermuda, with its expansive libraries and its sequestered study halls, the sheer volume of noise would have rendered them temporarily deaf if they hadn’t been prepared. And how could they, when throughout the day, the clocktower had not rung at all?

At the distance of the dormitories, however, the noise itself was obnoxious, perhaps even somewhat haunting, but certainly not harmful, nor anything to be concerned about. The Egoists continued their nightly routines, the Dynamicists lived life as normal humans with superlative capabilities, and the Technologists…noticed something.

The world that they perceived, the world of constellations informing them of the qualities of Heavenly Creation changed. As electricity surged through the buildings, some infernal engine drawing in the energy expelled from the Telesma System at ever greater rates, the lines that they could once perceive became denser and denser, Formulizing chaotically as if a child had taken a carefully knit article of clothing and mashed it back together into an imitation of a ball of yarn. And following that lightning-quick alteration was the simultaneous ‘click’ of locks being set into place. Such actions were especially drastic in Kiran and Shou’s dorm room, the open window slamming shut before either of the youths could prevent it from doing so. The surprise lasted only moments, however. Anyone Technologist who was in the know could understand what had happened.

The Starsteel Formulization.

It was well-known that the blessed blades of the Orient, forged from the very essence of Divine Proclamation that had been plucked from the false sky by an archer of mythological renown, were materials that could not be altered by the Formulizations of the Occident, a unique material that was a universal constant in a world where all else was mutable. In pursuit of recreating such constancy, a young prodigy hailing from Japan had sharpened his craft as a Technologist until he created a device devastating in its simplicity: through inserting complex wiring within an object and the expenditure of electricity, he could scramble the ‘constellations’ that such solids were composed of, greatly increasing the difficulty of performing further Formulizations while temporarily suppressing previously-edited ones. As if going from a neatly-arranged 3x3 Rubik’s cube to the incomprehensible chaos of a 64x64 cube, the Starsteel Formulization found value as a safeguard against unlawful Technologists that sought to refashion themselves as gentlemen thieves, confounding efforts to simply alter their way into a massive vault. And the inventor himself, Sukoro Jinga?

He too was a student in Bermuda now, no doubtlessly placed here in part for his contributions to the Academic City’s designs.
That is to say, then, that the administration running the City were taking curfew very seriously.

Of course, that wasn’t to say that the Starsteel Formulization was all-powerful. With Formulized properties suppressed, a glass window was truly just a glass window, and organic materials such as wood, of course, could not be Formulized to begin with. Brute force would solve the problem easily enough, and no flimsy lock could seal a properly-trained Egoist. And even Technologists and Dynamicists could, in theory, simply kick the doors down or smash the windows open.

The problem, simply put, was that all this effort wasn’t for the sake of preventing people from leaving, but rather to prevent them from hiding that fact afterwards by repairing their exit of choice.

And who knew the consequences that would follow after?

For a select few, however, such a problem wasn’t a concern at all. They had, after all, remained outside while the clocktower tolled its decree.

For a select few, the night was only beginning.

_@SgtEasy
The fog rolled in with a languidness that belied its suddenness. All Kalil wanted was some night air to clear his mind, a walk on the nearby beach to reorganize his thoughts. The evening’s festivities hadn’t all been disastrous, and considering everyone’s varying levels of intoxication, it was very likely that no one would even remember that he had been the first to sing out Pax Britannica’s opening lyrics. Beneath his feet, the sand still held some of the latent heat from the day, every step sliding to the side slightly. It reminded him, in part, of the dunes that he had traversed during his duties as a caravan leader, of simpler days where his gifts could be utilized freely and effectively for the betterment of people he actually cared about.

But the chill of the night had settled in, the salty sting of the seaborne fog seeping into his senses. In a distance that he could no longer judge, the ebb and flow of the incoming tides resounded in tune with his heartbeat, dampness darkening his clothing, stirring up the remnants of the stinging pain he had felt as those bastards branded him with polluted ink. Memories stirred still, as the fog rolled in with a languidness that belied its suddenness.

And just like that, Kalil found himself shrouded in the mists, so thick that street lamps from the direction of his apartment diffused into a meaningless, orange blur.

_@Greengoat
Jeanne set a clipped pace, but it was certain before she even began that she could not make it back to her apartments before curfew began, before the rumoured fog that masked every night in Bermuda rolled in and reduced her visibility to zero.

But so what? She could still see her boots, clicking against stone pathways, and her intellect was such that it was no problem, recalling the route she had taken before hand to Ryuuko’s ryokan. There were adjustments to be made, of course, due to the detours she had taken to burn a gazebo down, but even that was no problem. Bermuda’s streets were named. Tram tracks could still be seen. She was well-armed, enough to put up a fight against any vagrant Technologist or Dynamicist. And even walking, it would take less than half an hour to return to her suite, if she so wished.

She, of course, couldn’t know of the locks or the Starsteel Formulization placed upon every building in Bermuda, but that too was not a problem that more property destruction couldn’t solve, and the curious chill that settled in her bones was no match for the warmth generated by physical movement nor the flames she could generate with her pocket furnaces.

Her boots continued to clack against the pavement.

Yet, she could still hear it in her head. The clicking of a tongue, as if chiding a disobedient child.

And occasionally, intermittently, at the edges of her vision, she caught the glimpse of a shadow shifting beyond the veil.

_@Jumbus
It felt amoral, perhaps, to tread upon the stone garden, footsteps disrupting the carefully-raked patterns of the gravel field. Surely someone else, a custodian or a gardener, would repair whatever damage his intrusion had done to this display or Oriental sensibility? And, knowing this, perhaps Ryuuko would even enjoy the damage he’d have dealt to this symbol of traditional culture and arts?

Well, he also knew what the other residents of the ryokan had thought when that crazy bitch from France rolled in and blasted the front door apart, simply because her brain couldn’t handle the concept of sliding doors and defaulted to violence at every opportunity. Truly, the French were a barbaric kind, from their Blast Knights to their meaningless reverence towards the Maker, and Jeanne seemed intent on proving everyone’s beliefs correct. She may be fine with it, of course, but Franz himself certainly couldn’t go around alienating his peers with quite as little consequence.

The fog rolled in as it did, but his proximity to the ryokan, as well as the previously-incinerated door, meant that Franz could at least make it into the front lobby without any issue, not that there looked to be any need to. Lesser minds may have found themselves lost once the fog stole away their ability to see where they were going, but he was the Universal Genius. He could navigate Bermuda blind and on stilts, if he needed to…probably.

Still, once the phenomenon of thick fog was confirmed, and once the temperature started dropping to levels where he might catch a cold, was there any reason for him to still be out here?

Why was Franz outside, anyhow?

Silver Gate Academy [Accepting New Players]

_{@Sho Minazuki@Lonewolf685@Scathach}

Wraiths?

Otis cared not for the story, only that this ‘Ms Maggey’ was invested in it for some reason. But the motivations of old ladies did not pull at his obsessive desire for knowledge, and runners who asked too many questions about their clients didn’t get jobs for too much longer. After all, what should one focus on? The person offering the coin, or the monster that needed to be slain? It was good too, that he had already made preparations towards anti-spirit warfare. His studies in Kyoto would serve him well on this ghost-hunting mission.

Unless, of course, it turned out that yokai were, for some reason, totally separate from ghosts.

Without hesitation, the Strigidae tore the quest off the board, folding it into his pouch. Before he could proceed, however, another individual called out to him. A hunter. A spellslinger. Copycat gunmen who didn’t have any real reason for creating the facsimile of a real firearm. A tinge of disdain and pride shook through Otis; he suppressed it. There was always learning to be done by other hunters. And there was always an opportunity too, to compare notes between fellow disciples of the blasting rod.

“Yes. Wanna learn?”

Whether yes or no, there were consequences involved in answering such a loaded question by the boy genius.

Symphony of Espers

❄

22 | Female | Freelancers | Meltwater Spring
Moya-no-Yume | Dagger | Physical | Frosted Sheen
Snowdrop Vestige | Sangfroid Convention
Glacial Stream | Aqua | Rime Rose
[Freeze, Cold Insulation] Damage X, Restrain, Dispel, Rain, Trap, Enhance, Trigger, Blink, Powerful

DAMAGE: D | SPEED: C | SENTINEL: E | 750

PHYSICAL: E| ARCANE: D | CHAOS: C | 332

_{@mantou@BrokenPromise@OwO@FamishedPants}

The detonator was taken. The King was slain. The Gang had surrendered or was taken care of.

Honestly, Klava hadn’t even realized that Cobra had tried to bite her in the last moments of the fight; it was all she could to keep herself focused on not immediately snapping back to her normal form. God fucking damn did a Damage X note hurt like balls. But, well, even in pain, Klava had her reputation to keep up, so she didn’t even so much as gesture towards Apollo when the skinsuit-wearing machoman showed up with a golden gun and not much else.

And then, she reached the limits of her tolerance.

Her form glowed a blinding white, then shed off the injured shell of her Esper form to reveal the white-haired twenty-something underneath, her face still scrunched up from the pain as if suffering from some intense constipation. Whatever agony she had dealt with before was gone with the disappearance of her enhanced physical and magical abilities, however, and she stuck her aquamarine hairpin back in, letting out a long, long sigh. “Yeah,” Klava said, her chin tilting up slightly towards Samuel, “I’m sorta a badass. And the train’s left the station, Apollo. Gonna grab my complimentary meal now.”

That was exactly what she went to do, ducking through the doorway of the police station and looking for the donuts that Veronica had promised them. After all, she was a Freelancer. Her work was taking over the police station; the clean up was for the salaried Espers.

Maybe she'd have to retool her Grimoire after this too.

Qualia: Mission Sub Rosa

The waltz of polymaths and prodigies continued on into the night, more and more couples joining the floor as they realized that the entire party may pass before any of them could actually find a partner to take out on a spin. The lights in the room shone warmly, exuberantly, as the automatic orchestra gained a new brilliance under the guidance of the mixed-blood maestro, restrained instrumentals serving as a counterpoint to the soulful strings of Ling-Ling Zamloch. Such musicality wove itself particularly well into the ears of the more inebriated of the party, Franz, Ryuuko, Shou, and Hana all enjoying an altered state of mind amidst the glamourous opulence of the Hall of the Greats. For once, Vienna’s Universal Genius found himself following rather than leading, Ryuuko’s constitution and distaste for traditional roles driving the young lady to pilot them through the controlled chaos of the dance floor. Her years in Germany had served her well, and though she may not have been the better dancer under normal circumstances, when both parties were all loosey-goosey from Hana’s concoctions, it was little wonder that an Egoist would do better in keeping their wits together and their body controlled. Shou and Hana enjoyed the circumstances as well, the latter’s recreational opioids granting both Egoist a look perhaps at what Technologists see on a daily basis. The light that reflected from brass instruments and chandeliers, from wine glasses and marbled pillars, all seemed to disseminate into their base constructions, a kaleidoscopic brilliance that encouraged a bubbly joy within the two as they slipped between the gaps of fellow couples, quickstepping with the audacity that only two Egoists could possess.

Not all though, had the benefit of joining the dance floor. For all the suitors she had waiting back in her fatherland, for all the hands that normally would have taken hers in any of the Royal Society’s galas and parties following an architectural discovery or a historical breakthrough, Nazca found herself frustratingly alone, watching as the one hand she had wanted to take was whisked off onto the dance floor by some German who didn’t even know how to dance. Kalil had certainly expeditated the usual ballroom ritual of asking a lady out to a dance once he sensed the former princess’s approach, perhaps unwilling to be pulled between two equally stubborn choices once more and was now half-stumbling across the dance floor with someone else more than a foot shorter than him. A merchant’s guile may have taught the young man how to talk to short people, but it definitely didn’t prepare him for the experience of dancing with them. After all, the little princess of the Konigsmahnes had eschewed so much social experience in pursuit of her technologist obsessions that she knew little of what to actually do on the dance floor beyond following the basics ardently…basics that were mismatched for how Kalil himself was taught to dance. It was a small disaster, made only bearable by Lucretia’s inability to really comprehend how bad of a dancer he was, and Kalil being unable to really appreciate how embarrassing this was due still coming off his high.

If that trio was a disaster, however, Valeriya was a star, her flaxen hair shining in crystal-hued lights and catching the gaze of all bystanders. Other Egoists may possess more physicality than her, but the dance moves of the Occidental had always been designed for a flesh-and-blood human rather than some animalistic mutant, and the Ministry had prepared her well for the finer craft of socialization. She passed into the arms of many gentlemen and ladies that night, always a witty observation or a fine compliment on her lips as she changed partners, while off in the corner the one who originally invited her sat on a chair, tie loosened and sweat still dripping from his bow. Bang had been a good dancer. He always had an image to fulfill, after all. Being a ‘publicly adored’ Egoist meant knowing things that the War Gods of Vietnam did not need to, and he had performed admirably for one dance before his old wounds began catching up to him once more. A glass of chilled fruit juice subdued his fatigue though, and the cheerful frenzy of the dance floor pulled at him once more. The last song of the night was approaching. It was only right to accompany Valeriya one final time.

Thoughts of joining the dance at any point was totally out of the picture for James, however. The infamous Professor Poison, terror of Britain’s secret underbelly, was currently reclining on a sofa, a damp towel over his face as he suffered the down that came with the high of whatever twisted cocktail of drugs that the blasted Prodigy of Dhaka had, well, blasted him with. The music was simply too damned loud, and every footfall sounded like a hammer to his skull, a reminder that he seriously should have upped his tolerance to drugs and poisons rather than obsessing over the functionalities of his gas mask. It didn’t help, of course, that he could hear the high-pitched chatterings of one Inti Ruq’a, intent on making friends with any asocial wallflower that didn’t want to join in on the dance. Even through rejections and noncommittal responses to his conversation starts, the Aztecan youth was having the time of his life. A waltz was fun to watch even when you weren’t in the thick of it, after all, and seeing how more monstrous Egoists adjusted to accommodate for their non-standard limbs was a sight to behold. A sight that became even more worthy of beholding when one of them practically tossed another up a whole three stories into the air, the fabrics of that girl’s dress closing like a flower bud upon ascent, before blossoming open on descent.

Such revelry was not what Jeanne had interest in partaking in though. The buffoonery of supposed geniuses only exposed the ignorance and immaturity of her peers, as if they truly believed that the Academy City of Bermuda existed as some symbol of peace. Alone in an opera box, a goblet of sanguine wine swirling in her hand, the Flame Witch of France watched with cold eyes at the proceedings below, the light refracting from her wine glass casting a crimson hue over her pale features. They didn’t understand, did they? Perhaps they would never understand, truthfully. Geniuses bound by conventions, children still treading the tired roads of the adults before them, when they ought to be stepping upon the shoulders and the skulls of their forebearers instead, casting their gaze ever higher, ever brighter.

Or perhaps their gaze should be kept towards the horizon instead. Though he had been prepared for the party somewhat, Kiran had still found the opera hall to be somewhat stifling in its grandeur. As those that sought him had hopped off to join in the dance, the young explorer had sought solace outside the Hall of the Greats instead. The music was muted now, and he found himself staring at the falsified sky outside, breathing in the balmy air of the equator. Even here, the faint roar of the ocean could be heard, and as the time ticked closer and closer to the end of the party, double-decked trams began to converge upon the hall. The muted music crescendoed, the heady warmth of the night gave way to the cool breath of the near and distant ocean. Perhaps there would never be a true winter in Bermuda, but there would always be the familiar seas.

And that was fine.

As the first of the trams arrived, as the last notes of played out, Kiran got himself the first choice of seats.

The night was over. It was time to see their accommodations properly.

_{EE 87, May 4 | Night}

_{@Medili@Jumbus}
Was this a sick joke? Was whoever in charge of assigning students to their rooms actually some perverted psychopath? Did her family pay good money for this bullshit? Beyond the pleasant surprise of realizing that her dance partner was also apparently her roommate, Ryuuko, stepping off the tram and being directed to the apartment, would realize that the entire building was designed as a Japanese ryokan, with sturdy wooden walls partitioning the property from the streets and austere gardens of swept stone and crooked trees framing the wide, three-story array. She could practically smell the tatami at this distance. Perhaps it was novel, even enjoyable to the other students who had been assigned to this building, and there definitely seemed to be an eclectic mish-mash of nationalities around her, but wow. Just wow.

Ryuuko would have to do a fair lot of renovation, for sure.
_{@banjoanjo@Liotrent}
The grandeur of La Nadine was not lost upon Bang and James, both who had a moment to marvel at the French architecture that informed the design of the seven-story hotel, before they were whisked in by the staff to get their room keys. The first floor had both a communal dining room, a gym, and an entire swimming pool tucked in, doubtlessly meant to be a public space for all occupants of the hotel, while the two Polymaths themselves found themselves rooming together in a spacious four-bedroom, three-bathroom, two-kitchen space, already furnished with plush furniture and floral prints. There was no doubt now that Bermuda was meant to accommodate even more students than the initial two thousand, and it undoubtedly boggled the mind to consider just how much luxury could be afford when the unified wealth of the nations was concentrated in one stop.

Perhaps it was even a bit uncomfortable for the two of them…but on the other hand? It was about time they could live it up, as individuals of true genius and popularity!
_{@Yankee@SgtEasy}
Subdued elegance was what Inti and Kalil came to as they marvelled the Venetian design of their four-story apartment. Formed in the design of a horseshoe, with the inner side becoming an open plaza for dining and socializing amongst a well-maintained garden, the apartments had a wonderful beachside view, and the interior that the two were housed in followed that same trend of classy, cool charm. Patterned tiles clicked beneath their feet, while firm and warm rugs ringed around the furniture in the room. With a private bedroom and a shared living space that had an open-concept kitchen, the only fault that the apartment had was perhaps the lack of a bathroom…which honestly wasn’t a problem, when there was a thermae and a whole ocean within walking distance.

The colors in the room may be lacking the complexity that each of the boys’ respective heritages and cultures had, but certainly, that was an easy thing to fix.
_{@Psyker Landshark@Izurich}
Perhaps there was some irony to be mined from Valeriya being expected to live in what, by all accounts, looked to be a British castle, but Lucretia was easily at home with it. Roughly-hewn stonework gave the exterior of the castle-apartment quite a bit of medieval charm, while the suite that the two Europeans were actually expected to share was fortunately still equipped with all the facilities one could expect out of any modern suite. A massive hearth, equally massive chairs, and the mounted head of a stag, all generated a real sense of rustic, aristocratic coziness to the space, while the four canopy beds that were present in the singular bedroom was decked with fine embroidered silks. It was perhaps a bit excessive to have such beds, when piping wove in and out of the stonework to heat up each room regardless, but it brought forth thoughts both of resplendent comfort and archaic times, when privacy could not be guaranteed no matter how wealthy one was. Well, privacy wasn’t too much of a concern in the end. It would be easy enough to partition off the bedroom into two halves, and there were four separate studies within the suite too.

It looked to be very comforting, having this place as a home, even if it was unlikely that there would be any good hunting to be had on Bermuda.
_{@Zombehs@Silverpaw}
Dark, thick timbers and sturdy brickwork made for a rather traditional Germanic set-up for an apartment. Three stories tall and painted the brown, white, and green of any old-fashioned inn, the building was nothing if not comfortable for Shou and Kiran, removed from the flimsy opulence of the opera hall. It was auspicious that two men of the sea found themselves roomed together in a space that was humbly-furnished but still remarkably spacious. The small windows of the suite were a bit unfortunate, and the beds were a bit too big for what both of them were accustomed to, but otherwise, it was a comforting place with a simple coloring theme. Two bedrooms, a small fireplace and dining room, and a well-equipped kitchen made an austere impression, but one that gave Shou and Kiran plenty of room to make their own design choices if they so wished.

And if they didn’t? Well, what sort of traditional German hostel didn’t have a full tavern right underneath?
_{@Click This@GreenGoat@Vega7285}
The waters of the swimming pool that laid in the inner courtyard of the lime plastered apartments was wonderfully, beautifully blue. It was almost a pity then, that neither Nazca nor Hana nor Jeanne would be able to dip into that pool until the morning. The three had been assigned separate rooms in the three storied building, where stone pillars and plentiful archways contrasted with tiled roofs and wooden railings. Large glass doors led to patios that offered both views of the pool below, where lounge chairs and sunshades stood, as well as to the natural reserves beyond. The suites themselves, single bedroom establishments with a kitchen close to the patio to encourage outdoors dining, had wonderful Incan-style rugs to give some color to the interior, while tasteful Renaissance paintings adorned the walls. And of course, one could not forget to comment on how gorgeous the clawfoot tubs of the bathrooms were.

Undoubtedly, this would be a wonderfully clandestine retreat for the ladies of the apartment. And if they ever wanted to socialize and show off their swimwear…well, a scenic pool was just downstairs.